


Before or since (or both at once)

by cupiscent



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, canon-typical time bullshit, criminality for fun and profit, inappropriate workplace behaviour, who needs names anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27811075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupiscent/pseuds/cupiscent
Summary: Neil's recruited to a shadowy organisation, and takes an immediate fancy to the boss. He's always been cunning and flexible and just about crazy enough. He can keep up. He can hold his own.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 109





	Before or since (or both at once)

First time Neil sees him, it's the fragmentary, disastrous, seat-of-all-their-pants end of his second major operation in the field. It was looking dicey, to be honest, when in swoops an unknown figure, carving through the clusterfuck like a hot knife of focused violence. Elegant? No. Elegant as a hard and fast handjob in the gents. And just as effective.

Back through the turnstile, stripping off the masks to suck in proper air again. Jostling and joking and jibing and all the usual reassurances that they were still alive. Neil drags a hand through sweat-tangled hair, looks around, looking _for him_ —curious, always curious, his besetting sin, first among many equals.

There, the air of perfect taut control snagging attention as much as the unknown face. An _interesting_ face. Alert and aware. Perfectly in control. Talking with Ives, if by _talking_ you mean _exchanging three curt lines, almost orders_.

His gaze sweeps over all of them, over Neil as well. Sees, but betrays no reaction. Knows him just as cleanly and entirely as he knows Ives. Brushes past him without another glance or word.

He's solid with all that violent potential, perfectly coiled, and Neil thinks, with the clarity that he always gets in the adrenaline-flush finale of a job, _Yes please, don't mind if I do._

Which is, obviously, wildly inappropriate for someone he's only just not-actually met and doesn't know if he'll ever see again. Not that that's ever stopped Neil, before or since.

*

Second time Neil meets him is obviously _before_ that occasion for him, which is something Neil's getting used to. His eyes snag on Neil, just for a moment that someone else might not even have noticed, before he's skewering Ives and asking, "Without me or later?" Doesn't give any time for a response before he's batting the question away with one impatient hand; same one he points with when he says, "Sit."

He's just as enthralling in planning as he was in frantic improvisation. Neil had assumed it would be just a passing wild idea—he has half a dozen daily, one can't act on all of them, there's not the time—but watching him lay out a plan, finger stab on a pencil map, remembering the ruthless speed and creativity of him in action…

When he prompts, "Questions?" Neil has _all sorts of them_ , but remarkably few of them relevant.

Ives just asks, "You sure?" and Neil glances sidelong too casually to be quick enough to catch what he suspects was a tilt of Ives' head in Neil's direction.

 _He_ doesn't even look at Neil as he says, "Entirely."

So Neil laughs—genuinely amused, but not getting so lost in it that he can't catch and enjoy the moment of surprise he earns with it. "Is _every_ conversation in this outfit—" stretching the drawl a little much, but hell, Neil's enjoying himself, "going to be such a quagmire of who-knows-what-when?"

"No," he says, kneejerk reassurance; it's rather touching.

Though it comes in unison with Ives's grunt of: "Yes."

Neil grins, and drapes, "Delightful," over the moment like a silk scarf.

*

The answer is _both_ , actually—Neil was recruited both by the fascinating, dynamic, efficient boss, and by an often-distracted old academic mentor. (There was also the bland suit who did the actual business, but Neil can barely be bothered remembering him.) She—his old mentor—had been on his thesis panel, and had casually offered the most intriguing questions, and also occasionally recreational drugs. So when Neil went to visit her—as he did every now and then because sometimes he wanted an honest conversation that turned his brain inside out—and she was wittering away about time inversion, he first thought she was high, and then took it as an academic exercise and leapt in with both figurative feet. Half an hour later, he realised she had points of corroboration—she had _data_ —and he stopped lounging about and sat up straighter, starting to slide his questions around like he was manoeuvring a mark, until she said, "Oh, just come into the lab and I'll show you."

She took a phone call while they were there, the details of which Neil barely followed at all, he was that enthralled with the single piece of inverted shrapnel she had to work with right then. But then she shoved the phone at him, and Neil juggled it up to his ear in time to catch the end of a sighed, "Finally," before a far more business-like, "Welcome to Tenet. You'll have questions. Someone will meet you at dinner to answer them."

"Someone?" Neil asked, but the line was already dead. ( _Someone_ turned out to be that bland suit, and honestly, he was lucky Neil was already on the hook.)

Some time later—per Neil's personal timeline—he'll slot that _finally_ into his unfurling mental map of the situation with neat satisfaction, and think he's got it all sorted. Joke's on him, but when you have a sense of humour like Neil's, you always get to laugh as well.

*

It's not until meeting number seven—for Neil, but he's always been comfortable with the innate subjectivity of one's experience of so many things (truth, love, property ownership) and it's not so hard to add time to the list—that he actually has a chance to _talk_ to him. Less battle plans and ruthless action, more sliding in next to him at a highly polished bar, wearing genuinely _lovely_ bespoke suits. Sometimes this job is all the best parts of being crooked mixed with the best parts (Neil presumes) of going straight.

"Ives is _so_ boring to drink with, I hope you can do better," Neil opens with. Having already signaled the bartender on approach, he can watch the reaction now.

"I don't drink on the job," he says, but though he's very good at swallowing it down, Neil catches the momentary flash of a little smile.

Neil has prised open far less interesting puzzles with far less to go on. There's a thrill dancing in his veins and he hasn't even _ordered_ yet, but for the first time in his ill-thought-out life, there's something cold pressing like a knifeblade against his eagerness. Is this what second thoughts feel like? This job really _is_ teaching him new skills.

Here's the hesitation: if he slips and falls on this ascent, blithe escape might mean _leaving Tenet_ and that—

That, Neil finds, is unacceptable.

Neil's been quiet so long—too long. The bartender is waiting patiently in front of them. _He_ actually turns and lifts an eyebrow that might be concerned or might just be quizzical. Neil can't read him—can't get a baseline, that's what it is. Doesn't know when he's lying or hiding something, because he's been on guard right from the very first. Maybe he always is.

"Vodka tonic," Neil tells the bartender, without looking. Busy lifting an eyebrow right back. _Your move_.

The smile is so faint Neil almost doesn't see it at all. "Diet Coke," he tells the bartender.

It feels like he's giving Neil something. It just makes Neil want _more_. An urge snarls inside him, to peel off every layer without bothering to pass this parcel at all. But that cold unacceptability bars the way, and Neil just sighs with abundant disappointment, and says, "Americans."

He smiles—properly, but it doesn't really count, not when it's just how he's supposed to. Neil tells himself it will be enough. One could enjoy everything that comes with Tenet without enjoying _everything_ that might come with its intriguing boss. Neil actually feels proud of himself—this is what restraint looks like! Finally! Only took, what, thirty-ish years. 

And then he goes and bollockses it all up by—later, when they're pulling on gloves, watching the van approach down the lane, on the cusp of go-time—shooting Neil a downright _sly_ look, and saying, "Far more restraint than you showed last time."

*

So fuck him—literally, if Neil can possibly arrange it. Neil doesn't _know_ , of course, when "last time" actually is for his own frame of reference. He doesn't care. The next time he hears that voice, laying out quiet orders before the owner strides into the conference room, Neil's ready to turn lazily, and absolutely _rake_ him from head to toe. Really put everything he has into it, and he has a lot. Neil's been thinking about this. About him.

He's absolutely worth Neil's time to linger over ogling. That impeccable suit is like gift-wrapping on something equally tailored. Just the way he carries himself could catch Neil's attention. The man's a bloody buffet, and Neil doesn't know which piece he wants to sink his teeth into first.

Interestingly, he gives as good as he gets—just a brief glance, but heated as it is swift, and Neil feels it like a whipcrack.

Concentrating is _not_ all that easy, but Neil's practised at remembering things he isn't precisely listening to. He'll be fine. That's a problem for later, anyway.

Right now's problem is one he also points out, when Neil blatantly lingers after the rest have filed out. "Really?" he asks, no concern and barely mild surprise in the gaze he sweeps around the room. "Two of the walls are glass."

There are, needless to say, no blinds. Neil smirks—feels like grinning. _When_ is this from, in _his_ timeline? When can Neil look forward to this? He wants to wallow in it.

But it's here, now, and Neil says, blithe as he can, "Table's solid. Can you keep that calm while I suck you off?"

He can—he _can_ —even buried deep in Neil's throat, even with Neil's tongue curling _just so_ around the head of his cock. They're on the far side of the room, behind a pair of high-backed leather executive chairs as well as the table, like he's taking in the view as he thinks complicated thoughts. But he was hard before Neil got him out of his trousers, and his hip flexes just a little against Neil's grip, and the hitch in his breathing is just audible over the thrum of eager blood in Neil's ears.

Neil has brought people entirely undone with far less ammunition.

Sucking cock has never been Neil's favourite thing—hard on the jaw, for one—but somewhere between the thrill of taking apart this man's beautiful control, and not knowing his historical context for this moment, Neil is _insanely_ turned on right now. His own hips tilt without his conscious consent, but there's no friction to be had, and no attention to spare for himself when there's the matter of _him_.

Victory feels like the scalp tug of fingers tangled in hair, and Neil moans. He hisses— _beautiful_ sound—and that's all the warning Neil gets before he's coming. Maybe that's it, Neil thinks, swallowing, and sits back on his heels. Maybe it's still utterly worth it.

He isn't scurrying out, or looking disdainful. He's tucking himself away, just about immaculate again. But his gaze has that same focus—that he brings to a plan, that he brings to a fuck-up—and it's fixed on Neil, and on Neil's hand, where it's come to rest on _Neil's_ erection, urgent against the front of his trousers.

"Go on," he says, voice steady but low and vivid.

Neil shudders—half from the sound of it, half from wrapping hand around clothed cock properly. Not fantastic friction, with the rub of the cloth, but the look in those watching eyes, oh _that's_ fantastic. Good enough that Neil can only tease a stroke or two longer, before needing better, harder, faster, _more_.

Wants so much more. Wants _that hand_ , wants that mouth on Neil's own, wants him to taste his come on Neil's tongue. Wants, and Neil feels his breath scrape in his throat. Leans back a little more, bracing with his other hand, tilting his hips up. Putting on a show.

The audience watches. Those eyes on Neil, hot as a touch, steady as his hands on a gun. "This room isn't soundproofed," he says, conversationally.

"Shame," Neil manages, with only a hitch, and comes all over himself.

He desperately, _fervently_ wishes he wasn't inverting tomorrow, so he could enjoy this correlation of timelines a little longer.

*

There's further enjoyment, despite that. Ferocious mutual handjobs in the back of a car with brick dust from too-close bullet impacts still fuzzing his hair. A return-favour blowjob—or maybe the initial favour that Neil was repaying, who's he to know?—that leaves Neil gasping and boneless in the hotel armchair, watching him fold his hand around his cock and bite his lip.

"So fucking beautiful," Neil murmurs, and manages to lift a hand. "Get down here and kiss me."

He kisses like he fights. Hard and fast and effective and just on the edge of controlled. Neil—as always—keeps up only because he refuses to be left behind. Never quite as skilled, never quite as _proper_ , but Neil's always been cunning and flexible and just about crazy enough.

Neil holds his own. Always does.

He fucking loves this job.

*

A while later—a handful of meetings, a handful of inversions, a handful of confusions—Neil meets up with him in an apartment in Paris. It's going to be an extended engagement—meeting someone who has something to sell, travelling with him, taking the steps necessary. Neil's happy to have a day or two to settle in—and plan—before they get to work.

Coming in to the sight of a fine figure of a man making omelettes wearing only a towel is a _very nice_ bonus.

"Well hello," Neil purrs, for the quirk of his mouth, and on the way past Neil leans in to kiss him.

He leans back, not quite sharp enough to be called a flinch. No denying the surprise in his eyes, though.

Neil's fucked up. Taken the relative synchronicity of their timelines for granted. For a moment, the world's off balance. He's fucked this man, but he also hasn't. "Sorry," Neil says, stepping back quickly.

"No," he replies, just as quick, but he doesn't seem to have anything to say after, "I—"

Is this the first time Neil's ever seen him speechless?

"Omelette's going to burn," Neil says lightly, and goes to put his things in the second bedroom. Takes the time, for once, to get out the things that should be got out. Gives plenty of space, until there are sounds from the other bedroom, and the closing of the outer door.

The omelette is delicious.

It's over an hour before he comes back. Neil tries to look like someone who wasn't trying to figure out how to call off a time-travelling job when the boss was the one who'd spooked. "Sorry," Neil calls, entirely casually—not looking up from a magazine, _that's_ how casually, "I really didn't mean for it to be a th—"

The look in his eyes stops the words in Neil's mouth. "That wasn't—making a pass," he says.

Not a question, but Neil answers anyway. "No, it wasn't."

He gives that little nod, things falling into place. "That is something that is happening."

"For me," Neil returns evenly. For him, too, eventually. But not yet. Clearly. Neil closes the magazine, but keeps a finger between the pages. Carefully calculated body language, engaged but not pushing the issue. "It's fine. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed. I know better."

Of course, Neil could also be lying—could be exploiting the uncertainties of complex braided timelines to _assume_ his way into something for personal gain or just shits and giggles. That would be entirely within the scope of his talents and usual inclinations. (Not for the first time, Neil wonders how much the organisation knows about him and his past. How much _he_ knows.) But Neil doesn't actually think that's what's causing the hesitation here.

"I hadn't realised—" he starts, and then seems unlikely to continue.

Neil plays the odds. "That I was interested?" Doesn't bother censoring the smirk. "I didn't think I'd been that subtle. Only since the first moment I laid eyes on you."

So hard to read him. He should be thinking back to when that was—a more complicated calculation, for them—but though his face is shuttered, Neil's sure there's _more_ going on in there.

So curious. Always a besetting sin. Neil's fingers nearly itch with it.

He comes to a decision, sets his shoulders with it, lifts his gaze to meet Neil's. "That _I_ was interested."

"Oh." Neil's genuinely surprised, and _that_ doesn't happen all that often. Given what has happened—will happen—between them, the surprise feels justified. He wasn't sure he was interested? Neil tosses the magazine aside, and summons up a frown, and says, "I think I'm offended."

Wins a reaction; his mouth quirks. "Because I wasn't smitten with lust at first sight?"

"Outrageous," Neil agrees mildly. Makes a performance of drawing himself up while standing. "I will retire with what remains of my dignity intact."

He moves to meet Neil—though not block his exit, Neil notes, with only a faint tinge of disappointment. "It isn't that—"

Neil shushes him, which is its own sort of hilarious thrill. "We have a job to do, and you should be sure." Easy to be patient when Neil has already enjoyed what's to come. "It's fine. We have time."

Something astoundingly complicated happens to his face, so close Neil can pick out all the tiny microexpressions, without understanding what any of them mean. But he does step back, so Neil takes himself off to bed. Alone, and not a little frustrated, but more intrigued than ever.

*

They do the job. The plan holds until it doesn't, like always, and then it's the usual invigorating mayhem. A knifefight struggle in extremely close quarters that Neil would rather leave to the expert, but he's busy with the two louts who have guns. Racing along the top of the train—where else could Neil get a chance to try this sort of nonsense?—and of course when someone needs to insinuate himself into a slender space to retrieve the package, it isn't going to be Mr Does-Pull-Ups-For-Fun.

Neil sighs, and shucks the armour vest, and says, "Do keep hold of my ankles, there's a good chap. Hate to get wedged in there."

He does, grip firm but gentle, burning hot against Neil's bare skin beneath the cuff of his trousers. Neil _isn't_ getting distracted, but it does add just the faintest touch of lusciousness to the urgent stretch to hook his fingers around the corner of the package.

*

Debrief, medical check, follow-up questions, and all the downtime Neil can actually guarantee is this one night in a sleek and anonymous hotel room. They've promised—no more interruptions until 0600—but Neil doesn't hesitate when there's a knock at the door. (Though he does check the peephole; he's not an idiot.)

He steps inside; Neil shuts the door again, and is mildly disappointed not to be shoved up against it, but one can't have everything. He fixes Neil with a bit of a frown, but it's not really _at_ Neil. He says, "There are many reasons why this isn't a good idea."

Neil smiles. "It wouldn't be half as much fun if there weren't."

He huffs a laugh—a little exasperated, a little _fond_ , a little something else that Neil doesn't have time to analyse before he _is_ backing Neil against the door and there are much, much better things to think about.

It's not a timid kiss, but it's far more gentle than Neil was expecting. He's cupping Neil's jaw, warm and strangely distracting, a counterpoint to the sweep of his tongue, the faint nip of his teeth. Neil has a dizzy moment of panic that he's fucked up somehow, _changed everything_ , broken what came before by sharing too much. Can that happen? Does it work like that?

Then he's shifting, his strength nudging Neil back against the door, thigh easing between Neil's, and this is not the time. Worry later; _enjoy_ now.

Neil hauls at his shirt, gets hands underneath it, goes exploring that enthralling terrain of carefully husbanded potential. They kiss and they kiss and they _kiss_ until Neil is dizzy all over again. Hauls him close by a double handful of arse and is gratified to find he's not the only one already _fully_ interested in the situation.

And yet still he takes his time. They make it to the _bed_ , for pity's sake. They make it there fully naked. Neil can't remember the last sex act he performed under those circumstances. He's lapping at Neil's nipple, his cock smearing against Neil's thigh. Neil is going to buzz right out of his skin.

"Please tell me," Neil mutters into the inside of his own elbow, "that after all this you're at least going to fuck me." It's been a while, but the idea's not at all unwelcome.

He hums, like that's a very interesting suggestion, a honeyed rumble in his chest, and Neil's cock flexes at the sound. Then he's laughing, they're both laughing, and Neil lunges over to kiss him—that smile is so _sweet_ —and roll their bodies together.

Oh, _yes_. Like that.

Or even better, with his hand wrapped around both of them, bringing them into even more perfect alignment. He has delicious hands, surprisingly deft and quick. Neil could teach him to do things with those hands; has told him that; will tell him that. He _does things_ with those hands, drags them over their paired cocks slow and sweet as honey, and between the not-quite-enough tease of it and the roughness of his blessed workout calluses, Neil's barely short of babbling. _Marinating_ in the pleasure of this slow, careful thoroughness. 

Realising that _this_ is under every hard and fast and filthy encounter they're going to have (that Neil has already had). He's made a decision—that he _is_ interested, that he _is_ doing this—and he's come to take Neil apart with the same gentle precision he'd give to the handgun that might save his life.

Don't get Neil wrong, it's _delicious_ , but he didn't sign up to any of this to be a passive partner.

Neil tilts his head and leans into their slow, slippery kiss with new intent. Slides a hand down between them to tangle with his fingers, until they're stroking together, with urgency now. The kiss breaks up into a chop of panting breath and little nips. He makes these little noises, not consciously, not wilfully, and exquisite for it; the breathy cousin of a grunt, a little whine when Neil's thumb nudges just right at the head of his cock. His hips roll, his legs tangled with Neil's, but his eyes are still open, so close, still watching. Like this matters, like Neil matters. Neil's heart is frantic in his chest, in the heated space between them—he loves this, he _loves it_ , loves _him_ —

Comes hard, and he's only a moment behind, gasping, "Neil." And Neil moans, tips forward, kisses him hard and desperate, to shut him the hell up. They roll together, sweat and come and a long, slow tangle of a kiss.

Fuck, he's so _fucked_.

Neil wakes up to a knock on the door. He's still sticky. Across the rumpled and empty other half of the bed, the digital clock reads _0600_.

*

Neil decides, standing atop a skyscraper in a speed-rappelling rig with the wind ripping through his hair, that he doesn't care. He's about to _run_ down this bloody building, smash through a window, steal something that technically doesn't exist, and make a carefully planned exit with the sort of back-up he could _never_ have afforded, before strolling back to last week so he can make it to the Kentucky Derby. So what if things are going catastrophically right in his romantic life? That's no reason to panic. Normal people deal with it all the time. It can't be that hard.

He loves this job. And the perks, it turns out, are also pretty amazing.

*

"Do you know," Neil asks, stretching out with feet up on top of the plans he's looking for at the other end of the low table, "what I did before I met you lot?"

He glances up from his methodic search through the drifts of paper this plan has been accumulating. "Do I know, or do I care?"

Good question. Neil takes a thoughtful sip of his vodka tonic; it's sweating in the warm room. So's Neil, again, even though he just showered. "You know." It's more thinking out loud, so Neil's not expecting any more reaction than that tilt of his head. "Of course you know, you'd hardly let someone in without thorough vetting; I could be anyone from anywhen. Which makes your overlooking of the absolute mess of my false identities and actual past something of a puzzle."

That little twitch of a smile, like there's an in-joke that Neil is and yet is not a part of. Seen it enough times now that perhaps he could stitch together a theory on the causes and conditions thereof, but to tell the truth, Neil's not quite sure he wants to. What would he do with it? There's no angle. There's no play. What Neil wants to make off with is _all of this_.

He says, "It's in the past."

Neil's turn to tilt his head. "You've never even asked after my real name."

He smirks, as well he might, seeing _he_ doesn't even _have a name_. "Doesn't matter. The one you gave is fine."

"Actually." Neil smiles. Smiles like he's got away with everything he wanted _and_ a fast car to escape in. Smiles like he can see someone shaking a fist at him in the rearview. "Actually, I never gave one."

_You'll have questions. Someone will meet you at dinner to answer them._

And yes, that bland suit of a _someone_ turned up at his lone dinner in an out-of-the-way Asian buffet. No one Neil had ever seen, before or since. "You must be Neil," he'd said. And Neil had always been amenable to going along with whatever suggestions the mark wanted to throw his way.

He's surprised—no, scratch that. He's _astonished_. He hides it very well, but Neil knows him better, by now.

Neil grins, and finishes off his drink. "But I like Neil," he says, standing up. "I think I'll keep it. Come to bed. Plans will still be there in the morning."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [drawsaurus](https://drawsaurus.tumblr.com/) for the beta.
> 
> Come [find me on tumblr](https://cupiscent.tumblr.com/) where I have no idea what's going on but would love to shout about these guys...


End file.
